INNOCENCE. 
165 
Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
I sit, and play with similies. 
Loose types of things through all degrees, 
Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name, 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 
While I am gazing. 
A nun demure, of lowly port, 
Or sprightly maiden, of love’s court, 
In thy simplicity the sport 
Of all temptations; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
Thy appellations. 
A little Cyclops, with one eye, 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and instantly 
The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 
That spreads itself, some fairy bold, 
In flight to cover! 
I see thee glittering from afar j — 
And then thou art a pretty star; 
Not quite so fair as many are 
In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air, thou seem’st to rest j — 
May peace come never to his nest, 
Who shall reprove thee! 
